


Slow Like Honey

by aeslis



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, But without a few misunderstandings the slow doesn't burn, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, It gets better for our boy of course, M/M, Mild Angst, Not terrible ones because I do hate misunderstandings being the basis of a plot, Potya has passed away already I'm sorry Yuri, Rich-as-fuck Otabek, Slow Burn, Sugar Baby Yuri Plisetsky, some misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeslis/pseuds/aeslis
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky has a lot on his shoulders. The small diner he works at barely covers his grandfather's expenses, let alone his own. But then Otabek Altin shows up with an offer that's very hard for Yuri to refuse. (He does anyway, of course.)
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47
Collections: Otayuri Week 2020





	Slow Like Honey

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of what I hope is going to be a long, satisfying fic. It's already satisfying for _me_ anyway. 
> 
> **important note** : Yuri's reaction to the idea of prostitution is absolutely not mine; more power to the sex workers, yo. (Also for him it's more the shock of the situation than the content, just sayin'.)
> 
> Thank you to my best cheerleader and beta, [thehobbem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobbem). I love you!!!

Yuri is seven hours into a ten hour shift when they come in. Mila seats them in his section, right near the bathrooms, and before Yuri even gets to the table he knows he's going to hate them because he can hear one complaining about the 'clashing decor' and demanding a booth by the window instead. Which is dumb, because it's not like the window has a good view, especially now that it's dark outside. What does this guy want to do, stare at tail lights as they leave the lot? Yuri doesn't have time for bullshit, but he puts on his best professional attitude anyway because it's not like he has a choice.

Mila places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder as he heads their way.

"What can I get you guys tonight?" Yuri asks them, tugging his notepad out of his grimy apron.

There are three of them, and unfortunately they're all good looking in a bad-boy sort of way. Two of them have undercuts and the other one's styled kind of long, though not as long as Yuri's hair, and one of the undercut ones has taken off a leather jacket. What a waste. Then the cologne hits Yuri hard, and fuck. That, plus the entitlement, plus the fact that their clothes fit perfectly and look expensive, makes Yuri realize they've got money.

Which means they're not going to tip. It had taken less than a week on the job for Yuri to realize that the people with the most money were the most stingy tippers.

He growls internally and wrenches his smile a notch wider.

"Have you got anything in this place that doesn't look like it comes off a kids' menu?" says Fuckface #1, waving his laminated menu under Yuri's nose, and he's the one who complained about the seating. He's grinning too big with perfect teeth that Yuri would happily punch out of his mouth if he didn't need this job.

"That's all we have, sorry," Yuri says, failing to sound sorry at all.

"Figured," says the guy, dropping his menu carelessly onto the table.

"I'll have the cheeseburger," says Fuckface #2, who is also smiling, but not quite as brashly. He looks like the kind of guy who would run out into traffic and expect it to stop for him. Yuri briefly entertains himself with the idea that he might try it.

"Sure," Yuri says. "Fries? What do you want to drink?"

"How could a place like this possibly have decent alcohol?" says Fuckface #1, and Yuri barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

"We have beer and wine," Yuri says flatly. "House red or white. Beer's Budweiser on tap."

"Quaint," says Fuckface #1, and then tells Fuckface #3, "Budweiser tastes like cow piss."

"The red," says Fuckface #2, the smile on his face unwavering as he hands over his menu. It's actually kind of scary, like maybe he can't turn it off.

Yuri scribbles a doodle on his notepad so he can make it look like he's writing something down. He's not going to forget the order, but customers like this are the kind that complain if he doesn't do something. Then he raises an eyebrow at #3.

This guy's not smiling at all, but his gaze is level and considering in a way Yuri immediately recognizes. People look a lot more than he wants them to, but usually it has the silver lining of netting him some good tips. He's not hoping for that right now, so this guy's stare just pisses him off.

_What are you looking at, asshole?_ Yuri thinks, but doesn't say. Maybe it's in his gaze, though, because he's never really been able to turn off his glare, and something happens to the guy's face, too subtle to catalogue properly. But the intensity fades from his eyes, and he starts to frown instead.

"I'll have the same," he says, passing over his menu. He has a nice voice, low and smooth and full of confidence. Yuri would probably appreciate it more if he weren't running on the last dregs of this morning's caffeine and didn't hate all three of these bastards just on principle.

He wrangles an order out of Fuckface #1—the fucking same, of course, because apparently no one could be assed to have an original thought—and then turns his back on them, grumbling all the way to the kitchen.

They stay for over an hour, and Yuri does his best to avoid them except to bring them their meal and refill their wine, which they keep drinking even though Fuckface #1 bitches about it at every opportunity. (Yuri _knows_ it's shitty wine, they're a fucking diner.) By the time they leave Yuri is ready to knife somebody and he's sure everybody knows it.

Which is why he's shocked to find a crisp $100 on top of their credit card receipt. It's over twice the cost of their dinner.

"Wow," Mila says when, stunned, he shows it to her. "Do you think it's real?"

"Fuck." Yuri hadn't thought of that. He gets out the counterfeit pen and swipes the bill with an X, but the ink fades.

They stare at it.

Mila nudges him in the ribs. "Somebody liked you."

"God I fucking hope not," Yuri says, and splits the bill at the register to give her half.

*

Yuri gets home near midnight, his old car sighing as he kills the engine. His tank is newly full thanks to the extra tips he'd made, so at least he can count on that for a week or so. He climbs the steps to his apartment ready to crash into bed.

When he opens the door and flips the light switch, no lights turn on. He flips it again, his brain too tired to catch up, but when the room stays dark he swears, remembering the electricity bill on the counter he still has to pay.

It would be great if he could catch a fucking break.

He pulls out his wallet and goes to stand near the window, where there's enough moonlight for him to see what he has left. Just over sixty dollars, which isn't going to cut it. Maybe after tomorrow night's tips, though. He'll have to eat diner food for the next few days but it's not like he doesn't do that anyway.

Luckily, there's still hot water, however that works, and Yuri isn't above indulging in a long, stress-relieving shower. He just manages to do it by turning on the flashlight on his phone, setting it on his sink so it creates a ghostly spotlight on the ceiling and casts shades of gray into the shower proper. He'll have to take his charger into work tomorrow. He stands there for a long time, letting the heat soak into his muscles until the fog of his frustration starts to dim. When he gets out, goosebumps stand up on his arms. He shivers his way across his studio apartment, tugging on two sweaters and a hoodie for good measure before he drags all his blankets over his head.

It's the cusp of winter, and Yuri doesn't have heat. And even if ( _when_ , he thinks forcefully) he gets his heat back, he'll have to use it sparingly so he doesn't rack up an even higher bill he can't pay.

It's been two years now, but it's nights like this he misses Potya the most. It'd be terrible to try to take care of her; he doesn't have money for cat litter, much less cat food, but he wants the rumble of her purr and the warmth of her body curled beside him on his pillow.

But Potya is gone, and he falls asleep alone.

*

Fuckface #3 comes back a week later. He still has his leather jacket but he's left his friends behind. When he steps through the door, Mila turns to waggle her brows suggestively at Yuri over her shoulder. Yuri flips her off and doesn't care if everyone can see.

She seats the guy in Yuri's section, because of course she does.

Mila, who is a wicked kind of flirt, lingers at Fuckface's table for longer than strictly necessary as Yuri wanders around with the water jug to refill glasses. She lets her hip bump against his table and she smiles in a way Yuri can't, all suggestion and undertones. Yuri doesn't get close enough to hear what they're talking about because he doesn't care.

But when he's at the register putting in the order for table sixteen, Mila pops up at his side. "He asked if you're single," she says with delight.

Yuri punches the touch-screen for _club sandwich_ with excess force. "You'd better have told him no."

"I didn't," Mila says, and Yuri turns to glare at her, but she just grins unrepentantly. "I didn't answer him! Come on Yura, really. He can ask you himself. Besides, he's probably the one who left you the big tip and I didn't want to ruin it. I know you could use a boost."

Yuri breathes out slowly and goes back to inputting drinks into the computer, then sends it all off to the kitchen. Mila's right. There's no reason to shoot himself in the foot just yet; this guy isn't Fuckface #1, for starters. He might be kind of decent. Yuri'd been wrong about the tipping, after all.

Yuri takes a moment to look across the floor to where the guy sits, making the booth his own. He's taken off his leather jacket again, and has on a cozy-looking green cable sweater beneath. There's a solemn turn to his mouth and a manly line to his jaw, and he drapes against the back of his seat and gazes out the window with a particular kind of quietude that makes him look like he's posing for a work of art instead of sitting in a shitty diner. For the second time in a week.

"I wonder what his deal is," Yuri mutters.

"You could ask him," Mila says, bumping her hip against his before flitting away to greet a new set of guests, waltzing by an oblivious Georgi.

Friendly, conversational customer service is not Yuri's forte. He throws out the idea of asking him without giving it any consideration at all, and takes over a glass of water, ice clinking, to set in front of the guy. "Hi," he says. "Are you ready to order?" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his apron.

The guy looks up, and though he doesn't actually smile, Yuri thinks he seems pleased. He has warm, dark eyes. He's not terrible so far as admirers go; Yuri's had worse.

"I was hoping I'd see you again tonight," the guy says, and oh, right, Yuri remembers now that he has that nice, honey-deep voice.

"Yeah, well, you found me," Yuri says, dry. "What'll you have?"

The guy's lips twitch like he wants to smile, which is not the usual response Yuri gets for his impatience. "I'm going to ignore that you just left yourself open for a terrible pickup line, for both of our sakes." He settles his chin in his hand. "What's your name?"

Yuri looks down his nose, eyeing the sweater, the stylish hair, the shiny gold watch that looks like it probably cost twice Yuri's rent. He deliberates for a few seconds before making a decision he hopes he doesn't regret. "Yuri. Look, if you aren't ready yet, I can come back. I gotta take care of my other tables."

"Yuri." The guy nods with an air of satisfaction. "What do you recommend?"

It's an easy question, one Yuri gets asked so often he can rattle things off in his sleep. And yet, coming from this guy, who looks at Yuri with deep, thoughtful eyes, it seems unusually... personal. Like he wants to know Yuri's thoughts, and not just what tastes good.

Yuri hesitates before telling the truth. "The steak. The kitchen never gets the steak wrong."

"Then that's what I'll have." He hands Yuri his menu, confident and comfortable. "Medium rare. And a seltzer water."

He doesn't tell Yuri his name. Yuri squints at him, but the moment stretches, and then he realizes that the guy wants him to _ask_. A burst of irritation lights him up. "One New York steak," he snaps. "Got it." And he stalks away. He refuses to be baited.

He growls as he puts Fuckface's order into the register.

Thankfully, the night is busy enough that he has other tables to focus on, and before long the frustration takes a back seat to remembering orders and making sure tables are cleared. Fuckface stays longer than he really needs to, lingering in his booth, and Yuri thinks he feels eyes on him, but each time he glances over to check whether Fuckface needs anything he seems content, scrolling through his phone or sipping at his seltzer.

When Yuri goes over to drop off his check, Fuckface looks up and meets his eyes. "Ah, Yuri. Just a moment." Yuri waits next to the table as Fuckface reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a dead-ass for real _money clip_. That is clipped around a whole lot of money. Like, thick enough to be a book, that much money. Yuri realizes his mouth has dropped open and he snaps it closed in a hurry.

Fuckface unclips it, rifling through until he pulls out a couple of twenties to put on the bill. But before Yuri can walk away with it, Fuckface holds up his hand. "And for you," he says, and peels off a bill from the outside, which he passes straight over to Yuri. In a daze, Yuri takes it. It's another fresh, crisp hundred.

So it _was_ this guy, Yuri's spinning mind supplies. "This is a really weird way to hit on someone," is what comes out of his mouth. And then he feels his face warm, because that wasn't what he meant to say at all, and also, shit, this guy hasn't asked him for anything but his name, that was fucking presumptuous. "Um, thanks, I mean."

The soft chuff of the guy's laugh makes Yuri blink. The tilt of his smile is... really nice.

Yuri feels himself smile too, just a little. Then he clears his throat. "I'll be right back with... uh. With this." He vaguely waves the check and then makes a hasty escape.

The dinner rush has mostly died down, so he's utterly unsurprised to find Mila at the register, hovering like a vulture. He's a _little_ surprised that Georgi is there, because Georgi lives in his own fantasy world and doesn't normally notice what's going on outside of himself, but Mila must have clued him in. And if Georgi catches even a whiff of romance, it's over, like a shark scenting blood.

" _So_?" Mila says, hugging herself to Yuri's arm. "What happened with cool, dark and handsome?"

"Did he propose?" Georgi says, keeping his voice low, and a bit threatening.

"What? God no!" Yuri frowns at the register and tries to ignore them, pressing buttons to cash the guy out, still rattled. "Where do you get this shit?"

"Mila said he took a fancy to you." Georgi peers curiously at the guy, who's calmly sipping his water and doing an excellent job of pretending no one is staring at him.

"Who the hell says _took a fancy_ ," Yuri says. The register noisily spits out a receipt. Yuri snatches it, irritated all over again. If the guy had only paid with a credit card Yuri would've been able to sneak a look at his name, but no. It makes him feel cornered and ornery, like he's being teased.

"So what happened!" Mila whispers heatedly, because she can absolutely tell that something did.

The hundred in his pocket feels heavy, and precious. Yuri scowls. "He just tipped me again, that's all. Go take care of your own fucking tables!"

Mila makes a delighted sound as he peels away, completely undeterred. "Yura baby, your face is going to freeze that way, you know that, right?"

Georgi says, a little too loudly and definitely too seriously, "Do you need me to make sure he's good enough for you?"

Yuri _ughs_ as he leaves the counter, flipping them off over his shoulder, and goes to deal with the rest of his customers, Mila laughing behind him as Georgi asks, "What did I do?"

*

It's a rainy Friday evening the next time the guy comes in, just a few days later, and he's wearing a warm-looking duffel coat with a scarf instead of his leather jacket, which is kind of a shame. He shakes out his umbrella, leaving water spots on the floor. "Table for one, please," he tells Yuri, who's the closest to the door.

Yuri's section is all full, which means he has to put the guy in Mila's. He feels a little tug of disappointment and shoves it down as he walks away. It's not like the guy is _his_ customer.

So Yuri doesn't interact with him at all, and it's busy enough that Mila doesn't have time to stop by for gossip, either. But later in the evening, as the last few tables are wrapping up, the guy is still there, nursing a coffee and doing something on a tablet as the rain keeps pouring down outside.

Yuri catches Mila's eyes—she's wiping down a table—and tilts his head at the guy with a question on his face. She shrugs a tiny shrug, glances at the guy, and then wanders closer to where Yuri is picking up chairs, flipping them seat-down onto tabletops so somebody (hopefully Georgi) can sweep. "I think he's waiting for you," she murmurs, lashes low and suggestive.

"Hah." He picks up another chair.

They glance over at the guy. He takes another sip of his coffee.

"Well," Mila says after a moment, " _someone_ has to tell him we're closing." She gives Yuri a meaningful look.

The clock above the door to the kitchen says it's after ten. They don't get to eat until everyone's out of the restaurant, and the guy looks like he's settled in for the long haul. Yuri sighs. "Fine."

At his approach, the guy lowers his tablet and looks up. Today he's got on a gray v-neck sweater that's probably as soft as it looks, while his hair is in stylish disarray, falling over his eyes. Yuri's not sure how he manages both the preppy look alongside the bad-boy vibe, but somehow it works. Something in the eyes, maybe. His coffee is riding close to empty and there's change on the little tray Mila brought back to him after he paid. It's probably not even enough to be worth his notice. "Hey." Yuri puts his hands on his hips. "We're about to close up."

"Hello," says the guy. "I thought I might not get a chance to talk to you tonight." Yuri thinks he hears a thread of humor in his low, unhurried voice. "Please, sit." He gestures at the booth opposite himself in invitation as if he didn't hear Yuri just ask him to leave.

Yuri raises a brow and looks over his shoulder. Mila and Georgi are across the room whispering to each other while darting glances their way. Mila winks with a big grin on her face, Georgi's expression is cloudy and concerned. He rolls his eyes internally at their complete lack of chill. "I can't sit down. I have stuff to do."

"Just for a minute," says the guy. "I have a proposition for you."

Yuri frowns. "A proposition," he repeats. And then, pointedly: "I don't even know your name."

The guy smiles—a tiny thing, just a twitch of his lips, but warm all the same—and glances at the seat across from himself again. Yuri huffs, hesitating just another second before he folds himself down into it. Yakov's not watching, after all, and Mila's going to tease him whether he sits or not. His knees crack, and his legs, aching from hours of being on his feet, immediately go soft with relief. It's going to be hell to stand up again.

The guy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, shiny flip case to reveal a batch of business cards, and he passes one to Yuri across the tabletop. Yuri picks it up. It's fancy, textured paper, the kind where you can feel the fibers, and it's dyed a cool gray, with _Otabek Altin_ written in gilt cursive across it. Below are a phone number and an email address, also in gold. That's it; no company name, no position or title. Yuri glances at him, trying to hide his confusion. At least he has a name, now. "Otabek," he says, trying it out on his tongue, feeling the sharp consonants and soft vowels. "Okay. So, what do you want?"

Otabek sits back, gaze still on Yuri's, full of weight. Otabek takes the time to slip his business cards away again before he says, "I like you, Yuri." Yuri's chest swoops. It feels like he's noticing gravity for the first time.

Yuri thinks of how he must look right now, at the end of a long day at the diner. There are wisps of fine hair that have come loose from his ponytail, tickling at his cheeks, and his apron needs a wash after having coffee spilled on it. Yuri still smells of it, and of the kitchen, which soaks into his skin and stays until he gets a long shower. This isn't his ideal look for a confession of interest. "I'd gathered that," he says wryly. "Why? I haven't exactly been the nicest to you."

"No," Otabek agrees, but he doesn't sound like he holds it against Yuri. "But I admire people who are straightforward. There's not a lot of that in my life."

"So it's because I'm a dick?" Yuri jokes, not quite believing it.

"That, and your eyes." Otabek folds his hands together on the table, calm and attentive. He's fully serious. Yuri expects him to wax poetic, maybe; he's had people liken the color of his eyes to emeralds and jades, but instead Otabek says, "You have the eyes of someone who's fighting and refuses to stay down."

"Oh." Yuri feels strangely lightheaded. Good. Seen, for the first time in a very, very long time. "Are you asking me out?" 

Yuri thinks he sees that flicker of a smile again. "Sort of. Not exactly. Have you ever considered sugaring?" says Otabek.

Yuri's brows pull together. He does not know what that means. His face must convey this, because Otabek explains, "Sugar dating. I'm offering to be your sugar daddy."

The record scratch in Yuri's head is deathly loud. "My...?" His throat closes.

Otabek goes on after a slight hesitation, "It's an enjoyable arrangement for both parties," like that even fucking matters, how dare he even _suggest_ —, "for a few months, where we—"

"You want me to be _a prostitute_?" Yuri cuts in, heedless, as the anger finally catches up and overtakes him, volume growing with every syllable until he's roaring, voice bouncing off the ceiling, snapping like knives. He doesn't care who hears. His heart is beating terribly loud in his ears, drowning out everything. He's so mad he feels like he's on fire. "Fuck no!" He slams the business card on the table. His fingers itch for something to throw in Otabek's face.

"Ah, no, no, Yuri," Otabek says, holding up his hand as if to placate, but it's way too late, Yuri has no intention of listening. "Nothing sexual, I promise—"

"I said _fuck that_ ," Yuri spits. He scrambles out of the booth. How could he have been so stupid? This fuckface had been practically throwing money at Yuri; it should have been clear what he wanted.

He hardly notices Mila's stricken face, Georgi's scowl. He marches right past them and into the kitchen, where the staff is finishing their cleanup, laughing and oblivious to Yuri's ire. There's a sound wall between the kitchen and the floor, meaning they wouldn't have heard; a lucky thing. Yuri doesn't slow down until he pushes his way into the walk-in, shutting the door behind himself.

The cold creeps under his collar, under his sleeves, wrapping him up like a hug. There, in the privacy of all the cut vegetables and meats, carefully organized and labeled in bins, Yuri screams.

It feels good, so he screams again until he's panting, his breath white puffs in front of his face. Then he rubs at his cheeks and stomps his feet.

He can't stay in too long; the chilly air is sucking at his lungs and crawling into his blood only a minute later, so he pushes his way outside again. He feels better with the edge of his anger taken off; it's quieter now, has turned into a low-level thrum of disappointment and disgust. He can handle that. He huffs and slaps hands with the cheerful, oblivious kitchen crew as he passes them on his way back to the floor, where he finds Otabek gone, and Mila and Georgi hovering with the mop.

Mila drops the mop the second Yuri reappears. It clatters noisily against a table and gets stuck on an upside-down chair leg. "Yura!"

She wraps him up in a hug, and Yuri is suddenly so, so tired. His legs ache, his back aches, his heart aches like someone popped it with a pin. "Hey," he says, giving her arm a pat. "You heard us, huh." Hilarious. As if he hadn't echoed through the entire diner.

Over her shoulder, Georgi has his arms crossed and is looking murderous. "The sheer _gall_ of that monster, perverting the purity of romantic encounters with the intention of _sexual gratification_!"

Mila aims a kick at him with her sensible and pointy shoe. "Georgi! For once, shut _up_."

It's ridiculous and hypocritical, because Yuri hasn't seen a single photo of Georgi and his ex where he wasn't wrapped around her like an octopus, but he doesn't say so, because Georgi's anger on his behalf actually kind of makes him feel better, even if the guy's a walking disaster.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Thanks."

Of course they're not done with work. There's still the till to balance; Georgi fits himself down at a table to do the math while Mila and Yuri work on the rest of closing. For once, Yuri is grateful for the quiet, methodical silence of cleaning toilets and bathroom sinks. When he's done, rubber gloves deposited in the trash, trash bagged to be taken to the dumpster, Mila comes to find him. "Yura," she says, and the tone of her voice makes him narrow his eyes. "You should see this."

She leads him back to the table where Otabek sat. There's a twenty left for Mila's tip on top of the other change in the small plastic tray. At its side is another $100, folded in half, Otabek's business card carefully set atop it. 

For a moment, neither one of them says anything. Mila looks at Yuri, and Yuri looks at the money, disappointed in himself and the fact that he knows he's going to take it. That he needs it.

"It's okay," Mila says for him, her voice quiet. "If you want it. It doesn't mean anything."

"I know," Yuri says, gruff. Heat prickles at his cheeks, at the back of his neck. "I don't need you to tell me that." He swipes at the bill, doesn't look at it as he shoves it in his back pocket. Doesn't look at Mila, either. "Don't say anything," he warns her.

"I would never," promises Mila, solemn.


End file.
